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His hands were big and hard-looking, just like the rest of him, but his touch was soothing, almost sensual. The soft brush of his fingers over her skin. The concentrated expression on his face as he bent over her, encircled her ankle with his fingers, lifted her leg…
Heat shimmered in her blood, half embarrassment, half something ridiculous even to contemplate.
She wanted to hook her leg around him and draw him down to her.
She wanted to jerk back, get up and run.
Instead, she played it safe and sassy.
“Next time,” she said, “you might want to send flowers first.”
He looked up.
Her face was pale, except for the rosy flush of pink that had bloomed in her cheeks. He tried not to laugh, but he couldn’t stop the slow smile that angled across his lips.
“Good point,” he said, deadpan. “I’ll suggest they include that in the field manual.”
Which, he thought suddenly, might not be a bad idea.
He’d done lots of wound assessments, but none had involved a beautiful woman wearing only his oversized shirt and a pair of white cotton panties.
Hell.
He could feel his body tightening. Which was ridiculous. Get with the program, Akecheta.
She was a recovered hostage. He was responsible for her. It was as simple as that.
Same as all STUD operatives, he’d had extensive medical training. You never knew when you’d have to save a life, your own or your teammate’s, and part of hostage recovery protocol was to check for medical problems. It really was in the manual. You were expected to perform a Field Medical Assessment. An FMA, to use one of the military’s endless acronyms.
How come his dick didn’t seem to know all that?
Even as he’d done a clinical assessment of her chest and back—Insect bites? Check. Scratches from thorns? Double check. Cuts and scrapes and, goddammit, those black-and-blue marks just under her ribs— even as he’d done all that, he’d been aware of her as a woman.
The graceful arch of her throat.
The rise of her breasts under the T-shirt.
The silken texture of her skin.
What in hell was wrong with him?
He shot her a quick look. Her expression was veiled. She was staring hard at a place just over his shoulder.
He felt a muscle jump in his cheek.
For Christ’s sake, man, you’ve done a dozen of these exams before, some of them on women. Just get it over with.
He grabbed another antiseptic pad, sent his gaze moving swiftly over her legs again. Not too bad. Bites. Stings. Scrapes.
Ah, hell, scrapes on her thighs. That had to hurt. Her thighs were lovely, round and firm, the color somewhere between tan and gold.
Was she that color all over?
Were her breasts, her belly that some shade? What would her skin taste like? Cream. Sweet, silken cream…
“How do I look?” she said.
His head jerked up. “What?”
